


and we're in love

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Body Horror, Breastfeeding, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Lactation Kink, M/M, Magical Accidents, Male Lactation, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Richie Tozier's titties, Smut, They’re In Love Guys, no beta because i was too embarrassed, this one's a weird one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 14:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30073854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Since they returned from Derry, Richie's been experiencing some interesting side effects courtesy of the deadlights. Luckily for both of them, Eddie's super into this one.This is weird porn. Please check the tags.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 21
Kudos: 101
Collections: Anonymous





	and we're in love

**Author's Note:**

> This is because twitter user @boners pointed out the lack of lactation kink in this fandom in spite of the widespread fascination with Richie's tits, so blame them. This doc languished in my WIP folder, titled “what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck”, for over a month until I was reminded of it this weekend and wrote the final 3500 words in a fever dream between zoom meetings.

Things have been weird since Richie went back to his hometown to reunite with his childhood friends, uncover a shitton of repressed memories, and nearly get killed by an evil spider-clown from outer space.

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “ _You_ nearly got killed by the clown.”

“Babe, your near-death experience and my near-death experience are not mutually exclusive,” Richie says, tossing an orange twist into each of their glasses — each, because he’s making cocktails in his kitchen in Santa Monica, for his _boyfriend_ , Eddie. He still has to pause sometimes, just to marvel at it: the long sunsets that warm the sharp angles of Eddie’s face, the way he looks like he belongs here in Richie’s home, because he _does_.

“Yeah, Eddie, we _all_ almost died,” Bev shouts from the laptop screen. “Stop trying to make this about you.”

“I don’t know,” Ben chimes in. “I think we can let Eddie have this one,” and the conversation descends into chaos. Richie picks up an old-fashioned in each hand to carry over to where Eddie’s perched on the couch.

Eddie accepts his glass, looking up at Richie and frowning when he catches him staring. “What are you looking at?” he grumbles, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” Richie says, grinning. Only the man of his wildest teenage dreams, and as it turns out, that hasn’t changed over the past thirty years. Richie settles next to Eddie on the couch, and Eddie makes room, wedging himself against the arm and swinging his legs over Richie’s lap. He glares at Richie indignantly until Richie catches on and brings his free hand to rest on Eddie’s ankle, squeezing lightly, and Eddie settles back into the cushion, content.

That’s another thing that stops him in his tracks: touch. More specifically, Eddie touching him, at nearly every opportunity: a casual hand on his shoulder as Eddie reaches past him for a mug from the kitchen cupboard, tucking himself under Richie’s arm at every opportunity, holding hands on the center console — or if Eddie’s feeling particularly frisky, reaching to squeeze Richie’s thigh from the driver’s seat.

Richie’s brain fuzzes out over it once a day, on average, vision going out of focus as he looks off into the distance and sees it spelled out in fireworks: _I’M FUCKING EDDIE K. AND WE’RE IN LOVE._ Like high school bathroom stall graffiti sharpie’d on the inside of his skull. It’s not strictly true (they’re both fucking, in roughly equal measure, and on many occasions doing far more than that — Richie’s face gets hot just thinking about it) but it never fails to hit him hard and leave him reeling like the time he unwisely fielded a foul ball with his hand held in front of his face, the force of the catch sending his knuckles crashing into his nose.

It’s usually Richie who initiates or suggests new things and some days, he feels self-conscious about it, like maybe he’s pushing Eddie too far. Every so often, though, Eddie proves him wrong in the best ways: holding Richie’s head down where he’s nipping at Eddie’s neck, murmuring _harder_ , or, in a moment that will live forever in Richie’s memory, fucking Richie into a stupor, torturously slow, until he came untouched, and licking the come off his belly after.

Richie had passed out that night, expecting the dreamless, righteous sleep of the well-fucked, and instead had woken from an early morning nightmare with a mouth full of fangs, again.

And that was the weird part of his life post-Derry. Not the bare fact of the nightmares — he’s pretty sure they all have them; he _knows_ Eddie does. Nightmares after a near-death experience, lifelong trauma, and uncovering repressed memories… they’re to be expected. It’s the side effects that aren’t.

After he left Derry in the dust and forgotten everything — the great amnesia, Bill calls it, like it’s a fucking historical epoch and not one of the most fucked up things that’s ever happened to Richie, in a lifetime packed full of some pretty fucked-up shit — after he left Derry, he stopped remembering his dreams. The weird ones, anyway. He remembered and, to this day, occasionally masturbated to some of his better sex dreams, including a memorably detailed and intense one featuring Anthony Perkins the night he’d gotten drunk and rewatched the first and second Psycho movies. It had seemed unusual at the time.

Like so much of Richie’s life, and his more puzzling sexual fantasies, it makes a lot more sense now. He glances over at Eddie. He’s laughing at an elaborate story Mike’s sharing about attempting to empty his camper’s septic tank, relaxed into a sprawl, a sweating tumbler in one hand. His shirt’s still buttoned and tucked in, but he’s barefoot, legs still tucked in Richie’s lap. His jeans are rolled up to his ankles. Richie’s only a little ashamed to realize his mouth is watering. It _definitely_ makes a hell of a lot more sense, now.

But his dreams post-Derry — post-deadlights, he thinks, though Bev and Stan haven’t been able to corroborate — are vivid, deeply terrifying, and… transformative.

That night, after they say goodnight to their friends and clean up their glasses, after Richie shuffles through the house, closing curtains and turning off lights, until the only light in the house is coming from the windows overlooking the canyon, the streetlights and lights of other houses, and the light from the room upstairs, that he shares with Eddie, where Eddie’s waiting for him to come to bed — after all of that, Richie wakes in the middle of the night, sweating.

Eddie jolts awake next to him, hand flying to Richie’s back. “Rich,” he says, groping for the light. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Richie manages. He wills his heartbeat to slow, listening to Eddie’s low murmurs, leaning into his touch.

“What was it this time?” Eddie squeezes the back of his neck. “The leper?”

“I don’t know,” Richie shakes his head. “This was a new one.”

The weird nightmares are fewer and farther between, the further they get from Derry, but the side effects are no less jarring. Eddie’s accustomed to it by now, and Richie’s learned to live with it — waking up from dreams of hunting children through the woods with too-long canines, claws, and a craving for steak or shivering through nightmares of the flesh rotting off his body to find his teeth loose in his gums. He dreams of skittering across a web to a struggling body, sinking his fangs in, and wakes to his vision fractured into eight different angles.

“It could be worse,” he’d joked one time, in the phase where they — the collective they; Richie had recognized he was in over his head from the first incident, and wisely called in the experts — tried to divine a cure, with few ideas and even less evidence. “I mean, considering everything, this isn’t even that bad!”

“Richie…” Patty had said, the way she did to him sometimes, kind as anything.

Eddie had frowned at him when he’d shrugged back. “Doesn’t mean you deserve it, dipshit.”

And Eddie had meant it, stood by it, even when all their cards had been played. They had tried everything they could think of to stop it. Admittedly, that’s been a short list. Mike, the resident expert on all things horror-clown related, was quickly stumped. Bill, the resident expert on nothing, had suggested an exorcism, which Eddie had immediately shot down.

“No,” he’d said shaking his head emphatically, one arm crossed over his chest as he gestured emphatically with the other. “No, no, no. I’ve seen that movie. You don’t want any of that. Besides, what good is that gonna do? He isn’t even Catholic!”

“The man has a point,” Stan had said, and they’d put the idea on the backburner, for a worst-case scenario.

They never did fix it, but on the other hand, the worst-case scenario never came. The nightmares stuck around but the transformations were less and less frequent. Besides, Richie got used to them — they seemed more like weird party tricks more than anything else, and not even that, because only Eddie got to witness them most of the time. On the nights when it happened, he always fell asleep before dawn no matter how hard he tried to stay awake and woke up completely normal.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Eddie said, looking at him askance when he’d said as much in the group chat.

“Point taken. ‘As if it had never happened at all?’” He shrugged, raising an eyebrow. “‘Unscathed?’”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie, who was not at all unscathed, snapped. He tugged on the strings on his hoodie, drawing the fabric around his neck, where Richie’s werewolf-teeth had been the night before, and where the evidence remained. As it turned out, some nights the nightmare side effects had a silver lining, in that Eddie could be persuaded to submit himself to whatever out-there fantasies crossed Richie’s mind at 3:00 a.m.

Instead of werewolves or lepers or spiderwebs, Richie’s dream that night is far more abstract: he’s the spider again, but this time he’s pregnant. “Or brooding, I guess.” He shakes his head. “Something like that. There were all these eggs, and I knew somehow, that they were mine. That my children were inside them. Then they all started hatching, making these little crackling and clicking noises.” Richie shivers, and tries to shake off the feeling. “And then I think maybe I fed them? Or nursed them, or something. I don’t know, man. To be honest, it was pretty fucking gross.”

“Uh,” Eddie says, swallowing hard. His voice is an octave higher than normal. “Rich?”

“What? What?” Richie’s head whips around, checking his fingertips — nothing. He runs his tongue over his teeth, prodding a molar — nothing. He looks down at his body, and— “What the fuck?”

“I, uh,” Eddie says helpfully. His eyes are wide as saucers.

“Am I— is that sweat?” Richie plucks at his shirt, soaking through on the front. The fabric is heavy with… something, and he has to peel it away from his skin. His chest feels sensitive and hot, almost like it’s infected.

“Uh, I. Don’t think so,” Eddie said. “I think, maybe. It might be. Milk?”

“Milk?” Rich blinks.

“Yeah, uh. Maybe.”

“What the fuck,” Richie mutters. “Shit.”

“I’m not sure. I mean—” Eddie sighs. “The only time I’ve ever seen that happen was with nursing mothers. And with your luck, who the fuck knows.”

“Yeah.” Richie nods slowly. He tugs at the front of his shirt again. His fingers come away sticky. “I guess I should—”

Sitting up straight, he yanks the shirt over his head. Richie knows before he even looks — he could smell it, a whiff of familiar creamy sweetness as he tugges the fabric over his face.

“Holy shit,” Eddie says. He’s staring at Richie’s chest, where his nipples — his human male, vestigial, and until now, non-functional mammalian nipples — are weeping translucent drops of milk.

“What the fuck,” Richie says again. The situation calls for saying it more than once. Maybe more than twice. “What the fuck.”

The milk — _his milk_ — is leaking down the sides of his ribcage, soaking into the sheet beneath him now that he’s shirtless. His chest hair is soaked, matted to his skin. The skin of his pecs — maybe? Fuck, this is confusing — feels too small, swollen tight and painful. Richie rolls his shoulder, but that does nothing to ease the discomfort. 

As he watches, Eddie reaches out to run a thumb over Richie’s nipple, brow furrowed in concentration, and three things happen at once: his nipple lets loose with a stream of milk that soaks the waistband of his boxers, Eddie hums thoughtfully, and the touch rips through Richie’s body like a bolt of lightning straight to his dick.

“Shit!” Richie says. “Warn a guy, will you?” He runs a hand through his hair. He’s sensitive on a normal day, but this is something else — it’s like his nipples are a direct line to whatever troglodyte part of his brain controls his dick.

“Sorry,” Eddie winces, but then he does something worse: opens his mouth to suck the milk off his thumb, a flash of pink tongue visible when he pulls away. “Yeah. I definitely think that’s milk.”

Richie blinks at him, slack jawed. “Yeah, dude. I thought we established that.”

Eddie shrugs. “You can’t be too sure.”

“Sure,” Richie nods. “Yeah. Makes sense,” he says, even though it fucking doesn’t, because this time Eddie’s ducking his head closer, looming in to watch the milk seep from Richie’s nipples. “You know, I know I call them my titties just for fun, right? This is a little too literal for me.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hums again, and then — and then! — he runs the flat of his tongue over Richie’s nipple, bottom to top, lapping up the dripping milk. Richie nearly leaps off the bed, the shock of it sending him jackknifing forward so quickly Eddie has to jerk out of the way. He’s more than halfway to hard now, just from that.

“Did I—” Richie’s voice cracks. He clears his throat and starts over. “Am I awake right now? Is this— What are you doing, Eds?”

“That’s not my name,” Eddie says automatically. He doesn’t look up from Richie’s chest, but the lamplight illuminates the flushed tips of Eddie’s ears. “I just — I wanted to see. It’s sweet,” Eddie says. “It tastes good.”

Richie’s jaw works while he tries to think of what to say. In the end, all he can manage is: “Is this about your mommy issues? Because I don’t think I—”

“ _No_ , asswipe. What the fuck? I was born in the seventies, just like you. I was a formula baby, you absolute shithead,” Eddie snaps. He’s glaring at Richie, which usually does it for him on its own, and given the further compromising circumstances, well. Richie shifts the sheet over his lap. They’re pretty adventurous when it comes to sex, but this is completely uncharted territory. No need to make it weird — weirder — just because it turns out Richie’s way more of a freak than even he’d known.

“Then what?” Richie waits.

“It—” Eddie sighs, looking away from Richie, off into the dark corner of the room. “It looks uncomfortable, all right? And you’re supposed to — when it’s like that, you’re supposed to, you know. Do something to relieve the pressure. Plus, I…. It just tastes good.” Eddie says again, shrugging and looking up at Richie through his lashes. Richie’s stomach tumbles over itself — he can’t help it, that fucking look has been making him swoon for decades. Formative shit, right there. “If I can help you feel better, I want to.”

“Well, nothing to unpack there,” Richie says. “But — yeah. Of course, Eds. I… it does kind of hurt. If you think that’ll help, then…”

Eddie’s already nodding. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re okay with it.”

“Yeah, totally.” Richie says, ignoring the orchestra of klaxons screaming in his head, warning him that he’s about to make a damn fool of himself and scare Eddie off once and for all. If he did, he reasons, it wouldn’t be the first time someone had run screaming from his bed. Ha, ha. “Let me just—”

Richie takes a fortifying breath and shoves the entire bed’s worth of pillows between his back and the headboard to prop himself up, shifting his weight to get comfortable. He makes a point of keeping the sheet where it is, aware that it’s a largely futile gesture.

“Okay,” Richie says. “Ready.”

“Okay,” Eddie nods. “I think I should—” he turns to face Richie, getting up on his knees and bracing a hand on the headboard, and swings one leg over Richie’s thigh, a knee between Richie’s legs. “This okay?”

“Sure,” Richie says, letting his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling, rather than watch Eddie eyeball his chest. “Whatever’s comfortable for you.”

What’s comfortable for Eddie, apparently, is bracing a hand on Richie’s shoulder and leaning forward to take Richie’s nipple in his mouth, sucking gently. Richie bites off a moan. Eddie’s hand is firm, anchoring him against the sweet tugging at his nipple, the soft slide of Eddie’s lips on Richie’s skin, the relief that floods through him at the slowly easing pressure.

“Shit,” Richie says. “I, uh— that really works. Just like you said.”

Eddie pulls off with a wet smack that nearly sends Richie’s eyes rolling back in his head. He looks up at Richie with those fucking eyes again, only inches away, smelling like sleep, like sweat, like the bed that they share. There’s milk on his lips. Richie wants to die. “Good. Should I keep going?”

“Yeah,” Richie rasps, and Eddie’s already lapping at him again, the other side this time, and Richie feels it in his whole body: the relief as the discomfort fades and is overtaken by the slow build, tension on a screw, Richie’s dick fattening between his legs, his muscles tensing and relaxing with the rhythm of Eddie nursing. He’s getting more aggressive, sucking harder and longer, his teeth scraping against Richie’s skin. Richie swallows hard and tries to hold still, to quiet the insistent urge to _move,_ to keep the breath that keeps catching in his throat from turning into a whine.

Eddie shifts closer and Richie bites his lip. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. He’s not touching Eddie but he feels like he should be — but wouldn’t that be too much? He paws at the bed instead, his fingers twisting in the sheets and holding on tight.

“Ow, shit, ow,” Richie says, hissing a breath through his teeth. Eddie lurches back, panting, his breath gusting across Richie’s wet nipple. The pain fades to a dull throb, and it’s possible that Richie’s dick is harder than it’s been in his entire life. 

“Sorry,” Eddie gasps, pulling away, and just as Richie’s about to protest, he dives back in, latching onto the other side, gentler but just as enthusiastic. 

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, eyes rolling back in his head. His hips surge up — he can’t stop it this time, it’s too much all at once — Eddie’s hands braced on his shoulder and gripping his side, the weight of him pressing Richie down against the pillows, his calf tucked against Richie’s leg, Eddie’s lips and tongue working against Richie’s skin, eyes closed in concentration. The muscles of shoulders and back cast into relief by the dim lamp. Richie’s dick jerking every time Eddie suckles at him, soaking a spreading patch of precome into his underwear.

“Too much?” Eddie asks, frowning. He sits back on his heels.”I can—” He shuffles forward on his knees, and Richie tries to stop him, but he’s too late.

It only takes seconds, but they seem to move in slow motion: Richie unclenching his first, fingers twisted in the sheets and coming to stop on Eddie’s shoulder in an attempt to hold him back. Eddie’s thigh brushing against Richie’s unmistakable, unignorable boner. A wave of shame and terror rolls through him as Eddie slides forward one final time, his leg pressing fully on Richie’s painfully hard dick. He shudders, eyes slamming shut, his whole body curling around the contact, breath escaping in a low hiss. Eddie’s sharp exhale catches on the shell of his ear. “Oh. Jesus, _Richie._ ”

“Fuck, sorry, sorry. You know how sensitive I am! It’s okay, I’m good, I—” Richie moves to squirm away — Eddie’s thigh pressed against his dick is too distracting; he can barely think, let alone explain — but Eddie stops him with a firm hand on the center of his chest. Richie freezes. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He feels too clumsy, too big, too fucking weird, but the pressure of Eddie’s palm is reassuring, somehow.

Eddie shifts his weight on the mattress, rubbing his thigh against Richie’s dick through his boxers. The material drags slowly over his feverish skin, and Richie moans, turning his face into the pillow.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie says quietly. “Hey Richie, look at me, it’s okay.” He catches Richie’s hand in his, tugging him closer, and— holy shit.

“Is that a banana in your pants,” Richie chokes out.

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says, grinding against Richie’s palm. He’s just as hard as Richie is, briefs damp under Richie’s fingers. He squeezes gently and Eddie moans, shoving against into his grip. He pulls Richie’s hand away and lets it drop in favor of draping his body over Richie’s, pressed close, his dick hot against Richie’s thigh, his own shoved against Eddie’s hip. 

“Eddie,” he gasps. “Are we— is this okay? We’re doing this.” He nods mindlessly when Eddie hums in affirmation, rubbing his hands over Richie’s body, kissing Richie’s neck. “Yeah. Okay.”

“ _Is_ that okay?” Eddie asks. He’s braced himself against Richie’s chest, lips swollen and wet, hands sticking to Richie’s skin where the milk has dried.

“Yeah, please,” Richie says. Eddie kisses his chest and Richie feels suddenly frantic, arching his body against Eddie’s. Eddie’s dick is hot and insistent on his thigh, soaking through his y-fronts. Richie groans. “I want you to.”

Eddie makes a low noise in the back of his throat and ducks his head to Richie’s chest. The uncomfortable, itchy feeling is gone, but Richie’s nipples are still sensitive and puffy, almost sore under Eddie’s tongue. Eddie doesn’t let up, lapping and sucking at Richie’s tits, throat working as he swallows. Richie tangles his fingers in Eddie’s hair, cupping the back of his head, urging him on. His other hand drifts to paw at Eddie’s ass, digging his fingers into the tense muscle, pulling him close as Richie thrusts against him. 

He’s close to coming in an embarrassingly short amount of time — or it would be, if he wasn’t so fucking strung out. It’s almost too much: the tug of Eddie’s mouth on his nipple edging into pain, his chest slick and skin raw, the wet fabric of his boxers beginning to chafe against his skin. Richie shudders at the overstimulation, unable to catch his breath.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie grunts, bucking against Eddie’s hip. “I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” Eddie says, sitting back on his heels. Richie whines at the loss of touch but Eddie’s right there again, a hand on Richie’s dick, and leans in to kiss him, messy and deep, slick with spit and milk. Richie groans against his mouth, bucking up into Eddie’s grip, whole body trembling as he comes, blood rushing in his ears, vision whiting out.

“Yeah, yeah, Richie—” Eddie says, shoving his hand down his briefs, hand slick with Richie’s come as he jerks himself off, hips moving helplessly as he comes with a low cry. He collapses on Richie’s chest, panting, covered in milk and come. Richie looks down at him, his messy hair and heaving shoulders, and it smacks him upside the head all over again, Looney Tunes style, _th-th-that’s all, folks_ : how much he loves this brave, angry, loving little man, who also happens to be a great lay, killer in the sack, a freak on the streets and a freak in the bed.

Richie’s still deep in his feelings and catching his breath when Eddie staggers off to the bathroom to run the tap, and returns with a damp, warm towel. He washes them both down, gentle dabbing the towel where Richie’s skin is still pink and raw. He cleans the milk off Richie’s side, running the towel along his ribs, and Richie jerks away.

“Tickles,” Richie mumbles, and lets Eddie finish up cleaning the come off his belly, lifts his hips so Eddie can remove his ruined underwear and tenderly wipe down his softening dick.

“Sorry,” Eddie whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He wipes himself down with the same towel and herds Richie to the dry side of the bed, climbing in after him and gingerly resting his head on Richie’s chest, arm slung across his belly. “Mmm. G’night, Rich.”

“Should we talk about it?” Richie asks, even though his eyelids are already drooping. He’s warm and comfortable, lulled by the rhythm of Eddie’s breathing.

“In the morning,” Eddie mumbles. He rubs his face against Richie’s chest as his breathing begins to even out into a light snore. “It’s late.”

“In the morning,” Richie agrees, and falls asleep like that: perched on the dry side of the bed, Eddie passed out on top of him: content, happy, loved.


End file.
